


Static Interference

by toomuchplor



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-09
Updated: 2008-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John has pretty much perfected the art of ignoring Rodney.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Static Interference

**Author's Note:**

> I asked my flist for prompts and this isn't the direct result of any of them. Still, I was generally inspired by all of them, so thanks, flist!

Rodney has a tendency to wander into John's quarters unannounced, like an urban transient straying into an open coffee shop, with no discernable objective except to air his social grievances, as though John is some kind of waste receptacle for the confused contents of Rodney's brain.

But John has pretty much perfected the art of ignoring Rodney; he even has a dedicated stack of magazines and comics on his night table to occupy him during these impromptu visits. Rodney's venting recedes to an almost pleasant background hum, the predictable rise and fall of Rodney's voice familiar to the point of lazy comfort, disconnected from meaning or importance.

"Blow job!" exclaims Rodney.

John looks up over the top of his comic book. He knows for a fact that Rodney didn't just shout the words 'blow job'. Rodney can't _possibly_ have just shouted the words 'blow job'. In fact, John is one hundred percent certain that Rodney was finishing an extended version of his usual run-on sentence and maybe the last two words just happened to _sound_ like 'blow job', which was why they'd suddenly broken through John's usual bubble of disinterest and caught his attention. That's all that happened. John is sure of it.

"Don't you think?" demands Rodney, apparently encouraged by making eye contact with John.

John looks back at the panel he was reading before Rodney shouted something sounding like 'blow job'. No help there. "I think you may have a point," he tries, ready to delve back into his reading material just as soon as Rodney gets going again.

But Rodney seems strangely rapt, holding John's gaze. "Really?" he says, voice eager. "I mean -- really?" He licks his lips nervously. "So you would -- do that?"

"Do," says John, slowly. "Do that." He wishes he had a PVR for Rodney's monologue so he could pause and rewind the last thirty seconds, figure out what the hell they're talking about.

"That's just -- well, that's excellent," says Rodney, abruptly businesslike and pleased. He sits on the edge of John's bed. Usually this is just a prelude to a new and longer rant, so John puts his finger on the right page, ready to turn it.

But then he notices that Rodney isn't talking.

Rodney is, in fact, busily unfastening his fly.

"Oh," says John, faintly, "so you _did_ say 'blow job'."

Rodney makes the face he always makes when he thinks John is trying to be funny, then -- wow, okay -- tugs his boxers down enough to free his cock and just --

Just _goes_ for it, stroking himself into an erection with cavalier efficiency. "I'll warn you," he says, matter-of-fact, "when I'm about to -- you know. So you can get out of the way."

John's brain is completely frozen, his gaze fixed helplessly on Rodney's hand and Rodney's cock and his mind unable to accept the apparent truth that his life now suddenly involves those two things in conjunction with John's bed.

"I'm -- as you can see," says Rodney, somewhere between nervousness and edginess, "I'm kind of ready to go, here."

John allows himself another moment of inaction as he considers his options. He could either admit that he hadn't been listening to Rodney, that he hadn't really been offering Rodney oral sex, and Rodney would put his dick back and fasten his pants and go away in a hurry, and probably never walk into John's quarters again, invited or otherwise.

Or.

John isn't aware of the decision, just blinks and finds himself moving, finds himself kneeling and closing his palms over Rodney's legs, one on each sturdy kneecap, runs his hands up Rodney's thighs and pulls them apart as he does, brushes Rodney's fingers away and --

Rodney exhales briefly as John's fist closes around his cock, his arms coming up and settling on John's shoulders. "Sorry, sorry," he breathes, "been a while, like I said, it's been a while, this is going to be --"

John has known Rodney for a long time now, and he knows that most of the time when Rodney eats or rants or sleeps or complains, he's doing it to try and muffle the loud never-ending spool of thoughts constantly uncoiling like ticker tape inside Rodney's overcrowded brain. If Rodney wants this, wants sex, what he's looking for is an even deeper oblivion. "Shh, it's okay," says John, more to Rodney's rushing mind than anything else, then opens his mouth and goes down.

He'd never thought of this before, John honestly hadn't. He's told everyone often enough that there's nothing he wouldn't do for his team, but even so, John's surprised to find that his generosity extends this far. It's hard not to feel appreciated, though, when Rodney's fingers card through his hair and his square fingertips scrape over John's scalp, when Rodney's hips are making tiny helpless abortive motions up into John's descending mouth. It may have been a while for Rodney, but John's betting it's been even longer for him, years and maybe even decades now since he had this. Either cocks have changed or John has, because he's pretty sure it never felt this good before.

"Thank you, god, yes," Rodney says shakily somewhere above John's head, and John pulls off so he can get a good look at Rodney, at what he's doing to Rodney. Rodney is flushed to the tips of his ears and his eyes are blue blue blue and his mouth is red and wet and open. "You're stopping, why are you stopping, don't stop," Rodney stutters, rapid-fire words like a P-90.

"Sorry, not stopping," agrees John, and grins, and lowers his head to Rodney's spit-wet cock, the shaft flexing a little in the sudden cool air.

It is, John reflects, probably the least Rodney's ever said in John's quarters, and ironically, the most attention John has ever paid to the few words that do escape, little hungry words like 'yes', 'harder', 'fuck', and 'John'.

Then, too soon, Rodney hauls back on John's hair, his left hand pushing John's forehead away while his right dives in and cups over his cockhead, Rodney now so quiet that John can _hear_ his release, the soft liquid pulsing and the answering tick of come hitting the hollow of Rodney's palm. Then Rodney blows out a held breath, his body slumps with the release of tension, and his left hand slides down to tremble gently on John's shoulder.

"I know, your turn, just give me a minute," Rodney pants, all hectic coloring and grateful noodly smiles as he hauls his pants and boxers up, wipes his hand on his t-shirt.

"Nah," says John, and sits back on his heels. "I'm good." And he _is_ good, John's surprised to realize -- horny and on edge but weirdly satisfied and unwilling to make Rodney work for anything right now. He'll just wait for Rodney to leave and take care of things himself.

But Rodney's got John by the collar of his t-shirt, hauls him up to sit beside him on the mattress, and -- holy _fuck_ , that's Rodney kissing John's _throat_ and okay, maybe Rodney isn't thinking of this so much as merely a mutual exchange of favors. John wishes futilely again that'd he'd been listening to Rodney for once, if only so he'd know the terms of this encounter, but then Rodney's right there: he's pushing John back on the bed and crawling over John and his face is right in the crook of John's neck and his breath is heated and his cheeks feel hot where they're brushing John's skin and John isn't really sure how they got here, exactly.

He draws in a breath to ask, but gets derailed by Rodney's hand.

Rodney's hand, gliding up the inside of John's thigh.

"Whoa," says John, and arches his back with surprise, slamming his shoulder into Rodney's nose and his knee into Rodney's gut.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Rodney shouts, leaping off the bed with his hand holding the bridge of his nose. "A little gun-shy there, Colonel Frigid?" he asks, remarkably cranky for a man who just had a blow job. "Don't play the innocent card with me, I know all about you military types and your seedy assignations."

"Ass--" says John, and stalls out in that unfortunate place. "So, you really _want_ to blow me," he says, because. Well. _Rodney_. Ten minutes ago, John was dozily rereading the latest X-Men, and then Rodney shouted 'blow job' and John had complied, and now he didn't know what the hell was going on.

"Well, I thought you wanted me to," Rodney says, peevish. "Weren't we just talking about it?"

"We were," John says, not quite managing an affirmative inflection.

"So," says Rodney, dropping his hand and prodding experimentally at his injured face, which looked fine, "do you think you could keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle until I at least get your dick out?" And with that, he's back on John's bed, this time straddling John's knees and going right to work, pulling at John's fly.

John sags back against his pillows and tries to remember how to breathe. "I didn't know you did this," he says, because it's really the only thought he can manage.

"Pot, kettle," says Rodney with a wry smirk, "and don't think I didn't notice all your little tricks back there, that was hardly your first time riding the pony around that particular park."

"Well," says John, defensively, and then forgets to finish the sentence because Rodney's hand is hot and confident and getting right down to it, none of this fucking around and tentative stroking and teasing he usually gets from the women he sleeps with, just solid cheerful pulls on John's cock, matter-of-fact but wholly enjoyable, and John vaguely thinks about how much Rodney waves his hands around when he's yammering on about that science crap and that's when he realizes that he's probably never going to be able to listen to Rodney talk ever again -- he won't be able to concentrate, now he knows what Rodney's hands can do.

"You want my mouth?" asks Rodney. "I'll do it, it's only fair -- but honestly, I think I do my best work like this, and you seem to be okay with -- are you okay with this? You look okay with this."

John grunts and tries to speak but only manages to grunt again. He hopes he sounds positive.

"Okay, just," says Rodney, and does something with his thumb, "let me." And Rodney, he _kicks it into gear_ , like the truly top-drawer hand job he'd been giving was just the warm-up, and John's last thought is that Rodney's going to have to peel him off the ceiling when they're done here because John is going up and up and up and Rodney's chattering away the whole time so John can't even get a word of warning in edgewise, not that he could talk if he wanted to, he absolutely can't, it's impossible to talk when his voice is busy making these embarrassing desperate hitching noises and he can't catch his breath because every time he tries, Rodney does something new and more incredible and then it's too late, John exhales hard, hears himself saying 'ha!' loudly and not unlike Rodney solving a problem with his head inside an Ancient console, and he's coming hard over Rodney's fist.

"Wow, I don't think it's healthy to have that much -- well. Pent up inside you," reflects Rodney, scrubbing his hand clean on John's shirt. "I feel like the sexual version of ex-lax."

"Oh my god," John manages, and is proud to note that he's made three whole words in a row.

"Yes, well, I'd consider this experiment's results to be strongly in support of my hypothesis," Rodney says, and drops down on his elbows so he's hovering over John's face. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I have no idea," says John, and means it. "But that was -- huh. You sure you're not still a little ascended? I think I may have seen the face of some deity or another."

"No glowy white light," promises Rodney, and dips his head to kiss John's chin. "Just many long nights of practice on myself and my willing subjects."

"Consider me willing," John offers, probably too quickly, but he doesn't care. He lunges for Rodney's mouth and captures it, turning the momentarily awkward collision of lips into a slow pleased kiss of gratitude. "I mean, I'd definitely like to be on your regular roster, if you're accepting applicat--" and Rodney kisses him back, slides one hand up John's side under his t-shirt.

"You know," says Rodney thoughtfully, once their kisses have subsided into lazier nuzzling and Rodney's rolled off to the side a little, "it's a good thing we hang out in here so much already. No one's going to think twice about me dropping in at all hours, they'll think we're just talking and joking around like we always do."

John settled his hand on the crown of Rodney's head, ruffled his hair a little. "I'll miss our heart-to-hearts," he said, soberly as he could manage.

"Really?" said Rodney, utterly sincere and a little sheepish. "That's -- well. Sometimes, I thought you weren't even listening."

"Jeez, Rodney," grins John, "obviously I heard all the important parts."


End file.
